


Freedom To Want

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Party Animals (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, Trying again, going for a drink, talking without saying anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5640946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashika and James share a drink, after everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom To Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> Written for Sandrine who wanted fic set after the end of the series. Originally posted to Livejournal in 2009.

The pub is busy, the bar area packed with commuters caught up in the Tube strike chaos, drowning their sorrows until one side or the other capitulates. Enjoying the excuse to stay away from wives, from girlfriends, from mistresses, just that little bit longer.

Ashika doesn’t know exactly what’s she doing here, nursing a red wine and squashed up in a corner booth. There are crisp packets littering the table, stray crisps crunching on the floor whenever anyone moves towards the toilets. The music is blaring, a deafening cacophony that sets her teeth on edge.

She takes another sip of her drink, looks out at the crowd. Tries to spot a familiar face bobbing above the other drinkers.

He’s late.

Not that she’s totally sure that he’ll come. Even though he was the one who invited her. He was the one that did the chasing.

She’d been more than happy to stay at home, get into her pyjamas and sleep for the rest of her life. She almost decided that politics wasn’t for her, that there was no way that she wanted to put herself through that again. The highs may have been euphoric, but the lows were soul-destroying.

And then he’d called.

She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. She’d seen him on the tv, of course. Rounds of interviews on the BBC, Sky, ITV, looking smart yet slightly dishevelled – “I’m not doing okay but I’m trying” each of the suits seemed to suggest. Each one handpicked every night by a team of advisors.

There was much talk of whether his wife would leave him, whether he would leave his wife. Whether he would resign. Whether he would be forced out.

But Ashika had been beyond caring by then. Had turned off her tv and her radio. Ignored the emails that threatened to destroy her inbox. Dropped her phone in the Thames.

Buried her head in the sand. Tried to forget how close she’d come to having everything.

“You came.”

She looked up and saw him standing there, briefcase in one hand, pint of lager in the other. Nothing for her, she noticed.

“Yeah,” she replied and moved over a little, let him squeeze in beside her a little closer than was necessary. Let him brush his leg up against hers.

“I’m glad.”

He smiled and she thought he meant it, even. The slight crinkle around the eyes a sure give-away. He’d never been one for showy emotional declarations. Not even when he wanted her to marry him.

“We’re getting divorced.”

Ashika nodded and took a sip of her drink. It wasn’t a surprise.

James tilted his head at her, expectant. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I thought you might. We could- ”

“You thought we could what?” she asked finally. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Unused. Unwelcome.

“Try again. Maybe?” Earnest as always. He rested his hand on her knee, squeezed once before moving his hand away. “I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?” she asked, not sure that she could believe it.

“I was going to call before but it was…difficult. With everything. You know how it is.”

She nodded. She did. She did know how it was.

“I haven’t been picking up my phone. Or email. Or anything, really. Just…couldn’t face the world.” She cursed at herself for giving him an out, even as she wanted him to take it and run with it.

“Of course,” he said. “I haven’t much felt like dealing with people either. But you know how it is. Responsibilities. The party.”

She nodded. Is this what her life would be reduced to? Listening to him complain about the party, about going in to work every day?

“Are you leaving?” she asked. She reached out and held her wine glass by the stem, but didn’t lift it up, didn’t dare until he’d answered her.

He laughed softly, almost to himself. It was a bitter sound and she turned to look at him. “I haven’t been given much choice.”

She took a gulp of wine, and then another, draining her glass before she thought better of it. She set it down and reached out, took his hand.

“Do you know what you’ll do?”

He shrugged, stroked his fingers along her wrist. “No idea.” His gaze shifted, off her face and onto the crowd around them. Some turned away, colleagues, people he once would have called friends, turning their backs. Some stared outright, smirking. Schadenfreude in action.

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” he asked, as if it had only just occurred to him that she might have plans. That there were things that she wanted to do with her life.

That she still had no idea was neither here nor there.

“Not sure.” She paused. “I had a few calls, straight after. Fund-raising, charity work. Asian community liaison, that kind of thing. I didn’t return them though, so…I don’t know. Not this though.”

He nodded. They both knew what she meant.

“I’ve moved out. Got a little flat for now, though I’m looking for somewhere bigger. With a garden maybe.”

“Hope you’re not expecting me to do any gardening,” she said, before she realised that she hadn’t been asked. That he hadn’t said anything about including her in his life long-term.

Though everything he hadn’t said had been about including her in his life.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. Tactic acceptance. Permission for him not actually have to ask anything so that she couldn’t actually reject him.

Party politics at its best.

“Is it far?” she asked. No point staying around for another drink when the train drivers were still on strike and the pub was even more packed now than it had been when she’d arrived. No point denying where this had been heading all along.

No point at all.

“Walkable. Ten minutes, maybe?” He smiled at her, positively beamed when she smiled back.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Agreeing to something, nothing, everything. Agreeing to start over, try harder, worry less. Maybe even letting herself want again.

Maybe.


End file.
